


The Garden

by mmmuse



Series: Moments from Poldark [11]
Category: Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 22:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11300079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmmuse/pseuds/mmmuse
Summary: Inspired by The Black Moon, Poldark episode 3.02 and the gifset created bymargaeryqueen.





	The Garden

Ross swung the hoe, the blade sinking deep into the rich, black soil of Demelza’s house garden. He paused to drink from the ale jug he’d placed near his foot and survey the progress of their work. This was one of the many projects he’d held in his head through the autumn, all things he wished to accomplish for her, to please her. _To offer her as penance_ , he thought to himself. They’d had time together, since he’d convinced her to stay, to give him a second chance, undeserved as it might be. To prove to her the words he’d offered that cold, rainswept night. He’d been able to tick through the list of projects since they’d begun their tentative steps towards each other: a new cabinet for the kitchen, the replacement of their finer dishware, repairing the door on Jeremy’s wardrobe. Other things had had greater, more significant importance: her invitation to return to her chamber, for he had forfeited his place in it, as she had rightly stated after he’d returned from Trenwith. The three nights of sharing her bed, atop the bed clothes, delighting in every single touch of her hand in his, enduring every heartache of holding her near while she wept brokenly in his arms.

The fourth night, when she’d allowed him under the bedclothes, and the first tentative, trembling kisses she’d bestowed upon him in over six months. The seventh night, when she’d slipped free of her night shift, had drawn him close and welcomed him back into her body.

The next morning, the touch of her fingers threading through the hair covering his belly to find him, her arms insistent, her mouth finding his, her urgent pleas whispered against his cheek as he found her, sank into her. The sweet gift of her skin against his, her keening sighs, her words in his ear as he wept his panting release against her shoulder: “‘Tis past time that camp bed be stored away, Ross.” It took all his willpower not to fling it into a pyre.

The reconciliation took time, which made sense as their estrangement had been long, and was not without its stumbles, chief amongst them the specter of Elizabeth’s pregnancy. He’d tried not to think about it, the implications should the child arrive early. He hadn’t seen her since the riot, not until the day along the cliffs where she’d almost been killed. Or killed herself. Since then, he’d thrown himself into work, at the mine, on the farm, anything to keep his mind busy. The more he did, the more he noticed Demelza’s eyes upon him, a look of doubt shadowing her lovely face. Doubt in him, doubt of his promise to her, that she was his true, real and abiding love. For if the child arrived early, if it were his, would he claim it? Would that be the final pull for him to return to Elizabeth?

The shadows of Ross’s visit to Trenwith finally caught him when the child was born, a month early, on the night of the black moon. The worries and concerns he’d foolishly scuttled aside for months chased and engulfed him throughout the gloom, until he’d had to face them. The confrontation made, the only way forward was clear, and no amount of busy work or distractions could do what he knew must be done, and done by him.

And so he severed ties to his connections to Trenwith House and the remaining Poldarks housed within, entrusting all -- including the newborn -- into the care of his greatest enemy, George Warleggan. Turning away from the past, offering his full attention and devotion to the loyal and truest love of his life, Demelza.

A month had passed, and life at Nampara had begun to see a resurgence of life, laughter and love reminiscent of their early days of love, for Demelza was once again with child, and whilst Ross harboured many of the same fears that swept him whenever she was pregnant, he was pleased by the news. “I hope it is a girl,” he’d whispered as they’d lain in bed that night, surprised to discover the mere thought of another daughter had failed to stir the grief he still carried for Julia half as much as he’d expected. He would always mourn the loss of his first born, a beautiful, sun shining girl with her mother’s hair, but he now knew he had room in his heart for more. He shook himself from his memories, grabbing hold of the hoe and resumed his work.

An hour had passed under the unrelenting glare of the sun, and sweat streamed down Ross’s back and chest as he started the last furrow of the garden. The bells at Sawle church began to toll, momentarily breaking the rhythm he’d established and giving him a chance to wipe his brow.

“Verity will be there.” Demelza’s voice stirred the thought he’d forced from his mind earlier that morning. “Caroline…” _Jesus, stop this, please_ , he thought to himself, nearly spoke aloud for her. “For the christenin’.”

His eyes searched the ground near his feet, willing himself to tamp down any of the concerns he might feel before turning to look at her. She sat back on her haunches, a leaf of one of her young plants between her grubby fingers. He’d been afraid he would find accusation or doubt in her sea-green eyes, and was grateful to only find concern, deserved or no. He gave her a grim smile and continued with his work.

“Ross,” she said softly, stilling his hand once more and drawing his eyes to hers. She got to her feet and came to him, settling her small, capable hand on his arm. “I only meant that Verity is here, in the district. Do you think we’ll have the chance to see her before she returns to Truro?”

He released his breath. “Of that, I do not know, Demelza,” he said. “I could send word that we wish to see her, but I believe that would go against the bargain I made with George.” She slid her arm around his waist, pressing her head against his chest, drawing comfort from her embrace. “We should wait for word from Verity. She knows she has friends here at Nampara.” He dropped the hoe and wrapped Demelza in his arms, pressing his lips to her forehead. Her beautiful hair tied back with one of the old ribbons he’d given her shortly after they’d married. It made his fingers itch to remove it. _Time enough for that tonight_ , he thought to himself.

“Ross?”

“Hmm?”

“I fear neither of us are in any fit state for entertaining.” She tilted her head back to meet his eyes, crinkling her pretty, freckled nose.

He barked with laughter, and ringing of the church bells forgotten. “What do you suggest we do about it, my dear?”

A wicked sparkle lit her eyes. “I’ve water for the tub at the ready.”

“Mistress Poldark,” he growled, soft and low within the shelter of their embrace. “It’s the middle of the day!”

“Well, if you’d rather not---”

He interrupted her with a kiss. “Make sure there’s enough for two, my love.” They made their way for the kitchen door, the garden forgotten.


End file.
